


refrain

by rabbitprint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Memory, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26587363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: Set pre-game, spoilers through MSQ 5.3, an Elidibus short.Thousands of years to live means thousands of things to lose.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33
Collections: Final Fantasy Write Prompt Challenge 2020





	refrain

**Author's Note:**

> _Prompt #17 from FFxivWrite 2020: 'fade.'_

He loses another piece of himself on the Third.   
  
Six hundred years are spent on his efforts there as Elidibus sits alongside the shard's heroes, methodically nurturing their hopes as they yearn to free their nation from a tyrant. They conspire together at first from despair; they have spent all their lives in the shadow of cruelty, and their own families have long lost the ability to dream. They discover each other through accidental meetings, clashes of defiance where they glimpse one another only in passing: a voice raised angrily over the crowd, a hand fighting back against the guards, the stranger vanishing at the end of the alley.  
  
Then, as the would-be heroes draw together and discover allies in the darkest corners of their land, the possibility of salvation slowly begins to glimmer. It is only an ember at first. A spark.   
  
A promise.  
  
Elidibus is among them. He plays the part of a scholar, his voice quavering and soft as he presents moldering tomes from his library, showing them legends of a guardian beast dressed in wind and fury. A vast, winged storm, roused by the prayers of the faithful and willing to take vengeance for them all.  
  
Enraptured, the heroes hold their breath in wonder as they study ancient illustrations where the ink has bleached nearly colorless over time. Like a man undoing glamours one by one, Elidibus methodically translates languages that none of them have ever seen before, and guides them closer to the finish.  
  
At last, the chosen heroes gather enough crystals. At last, they summon the primal concept and find themselves burning alive beneath its might, their minds tempered and smothered beneath its will. Elidibus never warned them of such consequences; they had been too caught up in their epic quest to question, following the lure of every child's story they had clung to for comfort.   
  
The primal is a story too -- in a different fashion than they expect. They are powerless against its hunger as it devours every sliver of aether it can reach, spinning wildly out to shatter the nearest city, and then the one after that.   
  
In the end, it devours them as well.   
  
When the very last hero is gone, and the entire continent is smoldering and barren -- its aether drained beyond any ability to sustain life other than the smallest blades of grass -- Elidibus decides that his task is complete.   
  
He surveys the ruined fields. The empire and its victims alike are no more. As he considers the full toll of deaths, Elidibus forces himself to make a thin smile and think: _this destruction is in service to a greater cause -- a greater need for salvation than their own. Mortal sacrifices were unavoidable. This outcome serves my Lord._  
  
With chagrin, he discovers he must spell the words out deliberately for himself. Like a child nudging blocks back into place with his fingers, he pushes and prods at his thoughts. It is harder than he would like, to let go of the memories of these heroes. They had desired so very much to _live_ , to see a brighter day once more, to help one another through what they thought would otherwise be an impenetrable despair.   
  
They had wanted, very desperately, to be saved.   
  
It is difficult to set the whole affair aside, but Elidibus knows that he must. Steering these heroes down the intended course had taken up so much of his attention that their deaths have left him feeling _emptier_ somehow. Diminished. He had been their ally, and even though their plight had resonated through him -- along with every other hero and nation who had bowed their heads and prayed for aid -- he must use them as relentlessly as he uses himself.   
  
They are not the people of the Source. This is _not_ the world he must salvage.   
  
There is a difference.   
  
Dusting himself off, Elidibus goes back to the rift to meet with the rest of the Convocation. The time is nearly due; they measure such intervals by the astronomy of the Source, which can wax and wane across the reflections. Unlike the others, Elidibus absents himself from meetings only when he truly cannot attend, rather than add to the flimsy encyclopedia of excuses that they concoct. Even while sowing treachery on the Tenth, he had been diligent enough for that.   
  
For once, he is early. The rift has only a scattering of Ascians so far, each of them studiously concentrating on their own projects, or speaking quietly to one another beneath the hush of their hoods. He lands on one of the larger platforms, which is an unfortunately craggy shape -- not his favorite spot, for it makes it harder to see everyone at once -- and immediately casts around for a more preferable location.  
  
Emmerololth greets him with a nod as he slips past, trying to pick his vantage point. A lattice-web of aether is strung between her fingers, glowing molten orange with what he assumes is fire aether at first -- and then a crackle of levin ricochets through the entire pattern, and he stops in curiosity.   
  
It is an intriguing design, enough that Elidibus forgets everything else briefly in favor of examining it. Emmerololth, glancing up again, merely holds the construct out for his scrutiny. He bends closer; he can feel a latent composition of trapped energies within the web, but their potency is already being quelled, like insects slowly dissolving after the spider's venom has taken hold.  
  
"Pacification without the use of an Astral alignment," he remarks. "Fascinating."  
  
The exchange is innocent enough. Yet even as he speaks, Elidibus finds himself narrowing his eyes; the world feels as if it has lurched around him, knocking him off-balance with equal amounts of certainty and doubt. He has said these words before, in such a manner. To Emmerololth herself, perhaps. This is not the first time they have had this manner of conversation. They have _done_ this before.  
  
Try as he might, he cannot remember the circumstances.  
  
Emmerololth, for her part, looks unperturbed. She carelessly picks out two threads with easy mastery, clipping the ends and allowing them to dissolve into raw aether. "The net cannot endure a sustained charge," she acknowledges. "But it remains useful for its ability to renew itself even when damaged."  
  
"Does it?" he asks -- a little too sincerely, for she suddenly goes still, tension gripping her like ice.  
  
After a moment, she allows herself to blink slowly, though she does not look away from the strands, head bowed and unwilling to glance up to him. "Yes," she answers slowly, speaking to the aether. "It is... it is _your_ design, Elidibus."  
  
He can tell he has misspoken. The silence between them is too awkward now to be anything less than honest; there is no convenient lie Elidibus can think of to hide behind, claiming that he was merely referring to something else. Surprise has stunned his wits. The aether net in Emmerololth's hands is foreign to him. He forgot again. He forgot something _else_.   
  
He's not sure when it happened. He never is.  
  
Having no response, he turns away from Emmerololth hastily -- just in time to discover the other Ascians staring at them both. Even without trying, he can read the contemptuous frown on Nabriales's face, the man's thoughts nearly transparent without the protection of his mask. Beside him, a seething hatred boils on Fandaniel's mien, and with the same clarity that Elidibus once found concern and affection there, he can see something else in its place instead.  
  
 _This is what we have fought for? This pathetic, failing creature is what remains of Lord Zodiark?_  
  
 ** _This_** _is what we keep dying for?_  
  
He backs away further, scraping his boot on the stone, and tries to disguise it as a retreat to one of the further platforms. There, he wraps his own aloofness around him more tightly than a set of armored robes, and tries to keep his breathing steady.   
  
He must keep his face as impassive as his mask. He cannot allow himself to feel his own shame at his failures. There are memories stored within his crystal, and memories lingering in the ruins on each shard, but Elidibus dares not touch them. If he remembers, he will weep.  
  
Reconciliation. Healing. Harmony. That is what his duty entails. He must destroy in order to achieve these things. He must work against his brethren, and work against himself.   
  
There is no other choice. He is Zodiark's heart, and he is breaking -- no, he is _broken_ , helpless to make his people happy. Now and ever, for eternity: he cannot bring them peace. They can no longer depend on him, but there is no one else left. He parted from them once as Elidibus, and then carved himself back out of Zodiark so that he could return to their sides instead, and if that is not the greatest heresy imaginable -- to deny your god the very soul that you owed them -- he does not know what might be worse.  
  
No. _That_ is a lie as well. Elidibus _does_ know. He lives it every day.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
He loses another piece of himself on the Third.  
  
At least, he thinks he does.  
  



End file.
